


As Frightened As You

by kathryne



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: A House is Not a Home, F/F, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: With the house sold out from under them, Grace and Frankie have nowhere to go... but they have each other.





	As Frightened As You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to chainofclovers for a wonderful beta.
> 
> Although it mutated quite a bit, the original idea for this came from Telanu. Thanks for letting me run with it!
> 
> Slowly coming to terms with s4. This helped. So would feedback. ;)

_Somebody crowd me with love_  
_Somebody force me to care_  
_Somebody make me come through_  
_I'll always be there_  
_Frightened as you to help us survive_  
_Being alive_  
– "Being Alive," Stephen Sondheim

***

The house is a silent presence behind them; Grace is reluctant to turn and face it again. The squeaking of the real estate sign next to her chair, blowing in the ocean breeze, is a constant enough reminder. They're too late. They've lost everything.

She can't bring herself to let go of Frankie's hand, but she does, eventually, manage to speak. 

"We have to go back," she says bluntly.

Frankie's hand tightens on hers. She doesn't respond otherwise.

"There's nowhere else to go. We're – we can't break in here with a toaster and a fondue pot." She's avoiding the word that's been rattling around in the back of her head. _Homeless_. If she doesn't say it out loud, she can pretend it's not real.

"Sure we can!" Frankie sits up straight and snatches her hand back. She curls her lip, offended, and gestures towards their little pile of rest-home contraband. "I have a blowtorch, too, remember?" 

Grace folds her arms so she won't reach for the warmth of Frankie's touch again. "If you set the place on fire, I'm pretty sure the sale will be off."

That makes Frankie's eyes light up, and Grace curses internally. "Hey, great idea, Grace! Burn it all down. Then we rise like a phoenix from the ashes. We can rebuild it. We have the technology. And we can put in that indoor slide! Or maybe a fireman's pole, like in _Ghostbusters_. It'll double as exercise equipment." She waggles her eyebrows. 

Grace shakes her head slowly, but she can't keep the smile off her face.

"Tempting," she says drily, trying to cover up the sudden hot surge of emotion in her stomach. It is tempting, for a moment: she wants to lash out, to retaliate in a way that makes clear just how badly they've been wronged. Satisfying as it would be, though, she's pretty sure getting a reputation as pyromaniacs won't help them dig their way out of the early grave of the retirement village.

Frankie pouts. "You're still no fun."

"No fun?" Grace sputters. "We just Thelma-and-Louise'd our way out of Walden Villas, remember? That wasn't fun?"

"Well, of course it was, honey." Frankie pats her hand again and Grace settles back, slightly mollified. "But you want to totally abandon our first taste of freedom? Give it all up without even really going on the lam? You make a pretty crappy jailbird."

"Sorry, I'm not Sol. I don't know how to survive on the inside." She makes a face, thinking about his constant self-congratulatory martyrdom, and twines her fingers with Frankie's once more. "But going back doesn't have to be giving up. We just need to... to regroup! To make a plan. Marshal our resources. I mean, we don't have anything! I don't even have my phone with me!" 

She's been cursing herself for that the whole walk along the beach. For years, she never went anywhere without her purse fully stocked: her flask, of course, and a mini makeup pouch and antiseptic wipes, but also an extra phone battery and her emergency credit card, just in case. But after only a few weeks at fucking Shady Pines, she's gotten soft. Lazy.

"Oh, Frankie," she says, thinking out loud. "We can't even call a cab back to the village, much less pay for it. We're going to have to walk all that way again. Talk about a walk of shame." She groans. Her knee aches.

"Well. Maybe not." Frankie smirks mischievously, and Grace's heart lights up at the sight after what feels like weeks of dullness.

Frankie wiggles in her seat, hiking her tunic up around her waist. Before Grace can even form a question, Frankie's hand disappears into a fold of her baggy pants. She leans sideways, digging deeper, her tongue poking from the side of her mouth as she concentrates, and then she straightens triumphantly, waving a credit card.

"Is that mine?" Grace demands before she can think better of it.

"No, touchy." Frankie sticks her tongue out again, this time deliberately. "It's Sol's. I grabbed it a few days ago so I could stock back up on turpentine after I ran out so fast. Hey, I wonder if the staff stole that, too." She frowns, clearly angry all over again.

"Frankie, you..." Grace trails off, half chiding, half delighted.

"You genius? You saviour? You make my life complete? Go on, Grace." Frankie twiddles the card between her fingers and fumbles, dropping it onto her lap. She shrugs and lets it lie.

Grace shakes her head and reaches over, grabbing the card and tucking it into her back pocket for safety. "What else have you got in there?" she asks.

Frankie looks down, considering. She digs into her pockets again and starts pulling items out, lining them up one by one on the arm of the chair. By the time she's done and turning her pockets inside out, the arm is covered, and Grace is marvelling at the amount of crap Frankie's been lugging around with her.

"Not that I'm not grateful," she says carefully, poking through the assortment of random objects laid out between them. "I'm thrilled you have your phone on you, and Frankie, I'm impressed you keep a fifty pinned to your bra, although I don't know why you still had it, since we've hardly been going out." There's a little bitterness there, in the reminder of their lessened lives. She breathes in, carefully, breathes out against it.

Frankie shrugs. "It's been a while since this one's gone through the laundry."

It doesn't sound like the whole answer, but Grace tilts her head in acknowledgement. She picks up a small bottle of hydrating foundation, rolling its familiar weight in her hand. "I thought I told you to stop stealing my makeup for painting with," she says, but there's no heat behind it; she knows she'll be grateful in the morning.

Somehow she's shifted from arguing against the possibility of striking out on their own to considering the challenges. She's not sure when it happened, or how Frankie always gets her to this point.

"True art is in attention to detail, Grace, and I can't help it if NARS Mont Blanc is the perfect match for the vision in my soul." Frankie looks altogether too smug. She knows as well as Grace does that they're committed to this crazy idea now.

Grace looks at the rest of their bounty, separating out the crumpled receipts and gum wrappers, which Frankie shoves back in one of her many pockets. They're left with a scattering of change, several lint-covered strands of liquorice, and... "A metal file?" she asks incredulously, hefting the small but heavy tool in her hand.

"What can I say. My subconscious must have been dreaming about a jailbreak." Frankie's eyes go wide and she sits up straight. "Ooh, now Joanne and I want cake."

Grace grabs one of the liquorice strands and holds it out. "Best I can do for now."

"Thanks, Grace." Frankie picks a few clumps of fuzz off the liquorice and chomps down. "I've been keeping myself stocked with these so – "

" – so you can recover from the trauma of your Santa Fe snake encounter?" Grace finishes. 

"Yeah." Frankie smiles, happy to be understood. "Yeah, that's why."

At Frankie's suggestion, they hail a cab to the La Jolla Marriott, where Frankie charms the clerk and forges Sol's signature without blinking while Grace hovers in the background, trying not to look guilty. It feels oddly illicit, checking into a hotel without any luggage, a feeling that only increases when Frankie swans over, tucks her arm into Grace's, and escorts her to an elevator that skips the first ten storeys to take them straight to – 

"The _Executive_ Suite? Frankie," Grace gasps as they step into the opulent room. 

"Hey, I coulda gone for the Presidential Suite, but I figured we shouldn't max Sol's card out yet." Frankie flops down on the plush couch, bouncing slightly, and begins emptying her pockets again, piling everything on the coffee table. "Anyway, it was already booked."

Grace sits next to her with more care and toes off her shoes. She darts a pointed look at Frankie, who sighs, but stands, gathering the garbage she's scattered around her and taking it to the trash can. Then Grace gets comfortable and braces herself. She has to use both hands to hoist her leg up onto the table, hissing with effort. It's not quite high enough, but even the slight elevation helps her knee, and she leans back with a sigh, closing her eyes.

After a moment, Frankie's hand lands warm on her ankle. Grace opens her eyes to see Frankie hovering, clutching a couch pillow. At Grace's nod, Frankie lifts her foot further, tucking the pillow into place under it. That's better, and Grace smiles.

"Right!" Frankie straightens up, pocketing Sol's credit card, her emergency fifty, and a handful of change. "I'm gonna run over to Westfield, grab some necessities. You wait here and, uh..." She looks around quickly, then picks up the room service menu and the hotel phone, dropping them on the side table next to Grace. "Order us both dinner, okay? Damn, I'm dying to eat some veggies that still have actual crunch to them. I think my teeth have started to go soft." She bares them at Grace like a horse, startling a giggle out of her.

"Sounds good, Frankie." It does. The idea of eating a meal in privacy – one she can choose for herself – is unexpectedly appealing, and Grace reaches for the menu. 

Frankie smiles. "Back in a few. Don't go anywhere."

As she turns for the door, Grace is struck by a sudden wave of terror. They've barely been out of each other's sight since moving to the retirement village, and underneath her anger at the kids, there's still a reservoir of concern that their machinations didn't create, only fed. "Frankie, wait!" she calls out.

She's louder than she meant to be and Frankie spins around, her face showing the same fear that churns in Grace's stomach. "What?" Frankie demands, and Grace feels suddenly foolish.

"Uh... take your phone?" she says weakly, pointing. "So – so you can buy a charger that fits?" It's ridiculous. The mall is literally across the street. She can see it from the hotel, and vice versa. But she still looks at Frankie pleadingly, and Frankie softens.

"Sure, Grace. No worries." She crosses the room for the phone and makes it disappear into another one of her pockets, squeezing Grace's shoulder as she passes. "See you soon," she says again. "Promise."

The door shuts behind her and Grace sinks into the silence of the room. On the one hand, there's nothing to distract her from the throb of her knee, complaining about their hike over uneven sand after so many days of limited exercise. On the other, it's unspeakably wonderful not to hear the perky voices of the nursing staff, the puff of oxygen canisters, or the whir of electric wheelchairs in the background. The occasional traffic noise from outside is a welcome antidote to the isolation she's been feeling – a reminder there's still a world out there, and she can be part of it.

They both can.

She reaches for the room service menu, determined to bury the voice inside her that wants to chase out into the hall after Frankie. She couldn't catch up, anyway. 

What little food she ate at Walden Villas wasn't quite as bad as Frankie's making it out to be. For the price they're paying, it ought to be gourmet, she thinks angrily. Well, that's over. She can't wait to be in control of her own life again. And it starts now, with a fancy meal on Sol and Robert's dime. 

"Ooh," she coos, flipping the menu open at random. "The wine list!"

Frankie returns just over an hour later, blowing into the room in a hurricane of rattling plastic. Grace looks up from her wine glass, surprised. "That was fast," she says, hiding her relief. "Dinner won't be here for another half hour at least." She thought that was optimistic when she placed the order, expecting Frankie to be distracted by something shiny every five steps through the mall.

"Laser focus, Grace," Frankie says, gesturing at her eyes and smacking herself in the chest with a Macy's bag. "Oof." She drops everything just inside the door and comes over, sitting next to Grace and pouring herself a glass of wine. "Plus," she confides, "I kept expecting one of the kids to walk by and drag me back to that hellhole. Don't worry, though." She settles back against the cushions and pats Grace's thigh. "I wasn't gonna narc on you. I can withstand nearly all the most common methods of torture."

"Uh. Thanks." Grace lays her hand over Frankie's and relaxes bit by bit. No one else knows where they are. _Freedom_.

"Yeep!" Frankie jumps, barely saving her wine, and snatches her hand back from under Grace's. Digging into her pocket, she brings out her flip phone, which is vibrating wildly. She squints at the caller ID. 

"Bud?" Grace guesses, and Frankie nods. 

She holds her palm flat, watching as the phone shakes and jitters, until finally it falls silent and still. She keeps holding it out, though, looking at it as if waiting for it to ring again. "He called a couple times while I was in the mall, too," she says after a moment. "My voicemail's probably full by now. Actually, it might've been full already. But he's still calling."

"Do – do you want to answer it?" Grace asks. Her phone is still back in their apartment, so she doesn't feel like she can give Frankie advice. As much as she wants to cry out _No, don't_ , wants to lash out as punishment and wants to maintain this little oasis of solitude, the choice isn't hers right now.

"No," Frankie says, a long, drawn-out sigh of a word. "I just want them to leave us alone. Just for a night. That's not so bad, is it?" she asks, reaching her hand out to Grace, seeking approval. "They can deal until tomorrow, right?"

Grace picks the phone up from Frankie's palm. She flips it open, looking at the list of missed calls, and then she stabs the power button with her thumb, holding it down unnecessarily hard until the phone turns off. "I think they'll be just fine," she says, stretching forward to drop the phone next to the rest of Frankie's miscellanea on the coffee table.

"Yeah." Frankie's hand finds its place on Grace's thigh again and she closes her eyes.

"Besides," Grace adds. "If the kids are calling us, that means Walden Villas called them, and _that_ means they know we left of our own accord. I think ignoring their calls sends exactly the message we want right now, don't you?"

"Ha! That's right!" Frankie grins, eyes still closed. "Too bad we didn't get to see their faces when they found out about our daring escape. God, that was great." She leans over, knocking Grace's shoulder with her own. "I'm glad we're not done having adventures."

"Me too, Frances," Grace murmurs, resting her cheek on top of Frankie's head.

All too soon, there's a knock on the door. Grace startles, sitting up straight, and waits to be intruded on. But no one comes in; instead there's another knock. It's room service, she realises, and they're not in the home, where closed doors are no barrier to the staff's insistent nosiness. Frankie is already off the couch and halfway to the door, and as she pauses and kicks shopping bags out of the way, Grace watches her, thrilled by this tiny improvement in their lives.

It takes Grace a moment to ease her leg down and haul herself to her feet. By the time she makes it to the table, wine glasses in one hand and bottle in the other, the plates are laid out and Frankie is pulling the lids off each one. 

"Geez, Grace," Frankie says. "You really went all out."

There's a lot of food, Grace has to admit. She didn't mean to go overboard, but the number of options were a little overwhelming. Oh, well. The suite has a mini-fridge. She winks at Frankie. "Sol can afford it."

"True, true." Frankie chuckles as they sit down. She reaches for the tofu stir-fry, stabs her fork into a piece of broccoli, and grins to hear the crunch. 

Grace slides the steak over to her place. She picks up the sharp knife and runs her thumb along the serrated edge before slicing into the centre of the meat. Rare. Perfect.

"Hey," Frankie says through a full mouth. She swallows and waves her fork at Grace. "Speaking of what Sol can afford. You wanna order a blue movie later?"

Grace nearly snorts steak out her nose. Her eyes water. "Frankie!" she exclaims. " _No!_ " She blinks furiously and looks up, across the table, prepared to defend herself further. But Frankie is grinning at her, irrepressible, and Grace suddenly imagines Sol opening his credit card statement in a month and seeing a whole list of porn film charges. She can't help herself; she laughs, and Frankie joins in.

They make better inroads into the food than Grace expected. She even treats herself to a couple of bites of the chocolate cake she ordered Frankie. For the first time in months she feels comfortably full and sleepy, and she leaves Frankie scraping up the last of the caramel sauce in order to rescue the bags still lying on the floor. 

After going through them, she has to admit Frankie did a good job. She's going to miss her face creams by tomorrow – she doesn't trust the hotel lotion – but they're set for toiletries, pyjamas, and clean underwear, if nothing Grace would ever choose for herself. Frankie even made a detour into Sephora and picked Grace up some mini versions of her mascara, lipstick, and blush: the barest necessities, but better than going without.

She wants, very badly, to put on the soft cotton nightshirt, to wrap herself up in one of the hotel's fluffy robes. And then she thinks: why not? They're not going to be interrupted by some impossibly young nurse clucking and fussing about how, if they're sleepy, seven is a perfectly reasonable time to go for a little lie-down. There's no reason not to be comfortable just for the sake of being comfortable. She doesn't need to put on a show.

When she comes out of the bathroom, clean and cozy, the table is empty. In fact, the entire room is empty; she spins in a lopsided circle as if Frankie might be hiding in a corner or under a chair. But before she can really panic, the door opens. 

"Where were you?" Grace blurts as soon as Frankie comes in. 

Frankie looks at her, confused, and holds up a lumpy plastic bag. "I got you some ice. For your knee." She nods behind Grace, at the bedroom, and Grace turns again. This time she notices that the bed is piled with pillows and cushions. "We don't have to watch porn," Frankie says quickly, "but I thought we could at least kick back and channel surf?"

"That... that sounds really nice." Grace smiles, and Frankie smiles back.

Frankie bustles about for a minute once Grace sits down. She tucks cushions under and around her knee just so, wraps the bag of ice up in a towel, adjusts the pillows behind her back. "How does it feel?" she asks once everything's in place.

Grace sighs. "Not as bad as the other one – yet. I'm probably looking at another surgery eventually. Hopefully this time I won't need a replacement, though."

"Aw, that's too bad." Frankie gives her a little half-smile. "I was looking forward to living with the Bionic Woman."

Grace laughs and rolls her eyes simultaneously. "I hate to break it to you, Frankie, but either way, I won't be leaping tall buildings with a single bound."

"Duh." Frankie shakes her head and straightens up, patting her calf gently. "That's Superman, Grace. Don't be silly."

"My mistake," Grace mutters under her breath as Frankie walks away.

Frankie clatters and rattles around in the main room, stacking their dinner plates and leaving them outside the door, and then she disappears into the bathroom and comes out in the matching robe. "Gosh," she marvels, clambering onto the bed next to Grace, "is this what I've been missing by prioritising ecotourism when I travel? Saving the planet is always my primary concern, but..." She trails off and snuggles her face down into the robe's soft, plush collar. 

"Spoiling yourself isn't so bad once in a while, huh," Grace says affectionately.

"I'll increase our monthly donation to San Diego Coastkeeper in penance," Frankie says, her voice muffled. Then her head pops out of the robe like a turtle from its shell. "Wait, did we update our info when we moved? Are we behind on our support? Oh, hell, Grace, the leopard sharks are counting on us! What if I've let them down?"

Grace reaches out and strokes Frankie's arm reassuringly. "We can check tomorrow," she promises, and Frankie relaxes. 

Grace continues running her hand up and down the fuzzy fabric, almost mindlessly. Frankie's worry seems to have lodged in Grace's throat, and she has to swallow twice, three times, before she can speak. "Frankie... I'm sorry."

"For what?" Frankie pauses halfway through reaching for the remote control. "You know, I think the donations all come off your credit card, so at least my death won't've affected them."

"No, I mean for this whole mess." Grace pulls in on herself, clasping her hands in her lap. Her voice is thick with shame, but she forces the words out. "I should never – I _never_ should've let the kids get in my head about you. I should've believed in you. If I hadn't fucked up with the contractor and then listened to what everyone was saying, we'd be fine. I'm so sorry I didn't trust you." She stares at her hands, sniffling.

"Oh, Grace!" Frankie flings her arms around Grace and tugs her close. "No, no, no. This is not on you!" She cradles Grace's head against her chest. "If I hadn't gone and got myself dead, I wouldn't've had half the problems I did. And I shoulda known better, anyway, than to pay attention to the bullcrap they spouted about you. You always bounce back, whatever happens, don't you? I'm sorry too." She rubs soothing circles on Grace's back. 

"I just couldn't lose you," Grace says, quietly enough that there's no way Frankie should be able to make it out with her hearing loss. But Frankie's hand stutters mid-stroke before picking her rhythm back up.

"I couldn't leave you again, either," Frankie says, just as quietly. 

At the admission, Grace catches her breath. Some last knot of tension, buried deep inside her, unravels. She winds her arms around Frankie in return, holding her tight. One hand ends up inside the flap of Frankie's robe, but Grace doesn't care; she needs so badly to be close, and the heat of Frankie's body, under her robe, through her nightshirt, is real and immediate and alive.

"Well, good," she murmurs. "Because I'm not letting you go." Though she means it metaphorically, it's true literally, too. She doesn't want to let Frankie go, wants to stay here in her embrace forever, or at least for the rest of the night. The loss of the beach house is going to sting for a long time, but this.... 

She curls into Frankie, hiding tears. This is what's important. Oh, God. How could she not have seen it before? Her pulse pounds, blood rushing through her veins, and her skin prickles with understanding. "Not this time," she says again. She isn't entirely certain what she means, but something inside her needs to say it anyway. Needs to be heard.

"You don't have to, honey," Frankie says, and Grace thinks she's responding to every possible layer of meaning. "And that's all that matters now, isn't it? We'll find another house. Maybe one with fewer stairs. Or bigger closets. Or a bathtub on the main floor, but not in the kitchen."

Grace chuckles wetly and wipes damp eyes on Frankie's robe. They're both on the same wavelength, and she's touched by Frankie's efforts to imagine not just a new home, but one even better suited to Grace's needs. "I'd like that. A-and maybe with studio space in the house itself, instead of a totally separate building." 

"Oh, nice one," Frankie says appreciatively. She's still stroking Grace's back; now she bends and kisses the top of her head. When she speaks, Grace can feel her words as well as hear them. "Hey, won't the paint smell bother you?"

That was why Frankie had ended up with the studio in the first place, nearly – God! – twenty-five years ago. In hindsight, Grace can admit, if only to herself, that she'd been a total bitch back then about spending time or energy on Frankie's art, or on Frankie at all. She'd complained for days about the potential inconveniences of Frankie's work, predicting headaches and dizziness, until Robert and Sol had found the beach house, complete with a space of Frankie's own, away from Grace. 

That couldn't be further from what she wants now. If pressed, she'll claim she worries about Frankie all alone in her studio for hours at a time. The truth is, she's just thinking about how to keep Frankie as close as possible. Frankie, who moved to Walden Villas for her. For her! 

Grace breathes in, and there it is – oil paints and turpentine, pot and patchouli, and, under everything, the warm human scent of Frankie's skin. All the comforts of home.

"Well, maybe," she lies. And she might still get headaches, but that's the least of her worries. "We can figure that out later, can't we? And anything else that comes up? Just – just as long as we're together?" What to do about the kids, she means, but also what to do about the impossible rightness of Frankie in her arms. Forget what they've lost; she's been found.

"Yeah." Frankie takes a deep breath and exhales noisily, ruffling Grace's hair. 

Under her ear, Grace can hear Frankie's heart, thumping rhythmically, steadily. As she calms, her own pulse slows to echo it, almost in time. Maybe, she thinks, maybe there isn't anything that needs to be done, not really. Maybe she just needs to accept that this is it for her now. She'll do anything for Frankie. Even a year ago, that might have scared her. Not any more. Because Frankie, apparently, will do anything for her too. And they can decide what that looks like, going forward.

"Yeah," Frankie repeats. She tightens her hold on Grace. She isn't letting go either. "Together."


End file.
